This is what I know
If I die
I can meet Pay-pay
in the after-life
if there is one.
Ha Jia told me
it was hard for you
across the strait of Malacca
across the Adaman Sea,
especially with the little ones,
that so many of our people
never made it.
This is what I know
it is harder
for me
to sleep with sounds
than silence.
Sometimes
just sometimes
I play with Ha Jia’s children.
We play hide and seek.
They work hard, too
they plant
dig their soil
deep into the earth
till their nails
are all dirt,
but they do not carry heavy loads
on their backs,
when I play
I remember
I am just a boy
not a man
carrying a man’s worries
heavy on my back.
Nga Lo Chit Mae Thu.*
*You are driving me crazy!
I like the letter telling me about songs
I read it, May-may.
I like that you sing at the camps
songs float in the air
a gentle breeze
that lifts you far away, you say.
Where?
To come back and get me.
Sometimes I will read a letter—or two
if I am not too busy
or tired.
Sometimes the forest is a monster:
the gunfire,
the sound of the tamarinds
the snakes
the hungry rats,
Sometimes it is a song
sweet
dream-like,
teasing me
to run like the wind.
I am reading books, May-may.
There are not many here,
but I read whatever Ha-Jia finds.
One day
he went to the capital
and found a whole load
that people threw out
in the garbage.
Some people may say they stink
but I say they smell
of what I can know
if I keep them
close.
Mama writes me, and I decide to read her letter
I never taught you to write
since I never wanted you to dream.
My dreams were once
the sun
the moon
the seas.
I forgot I was a girl.
I forgot I was a Ronhingya.
I never taught you to read
since I did not want you
to discover
there was more than the little
I could give to you-
a world beyond our small place
where people went to work
and their words mattered.
I never taught you to read or write
since I was afraid
for you to try to fly;
I knew there was no fuel in our world
and your wings,
which were enormous
would only come
crashing down.
Don’t worry.
I would not dare to dream.
Where could it possibly
take me?
This is what I know
dreams are stupid.
There is a girl
in the woods
I see her peeking out through the leaves.
Her face
is like a leaf
big
beautiful
bright
scared of the light.
Is she a dream?
Ha Jia told me about mirages,
maybe that is all she is
because if I blink my eyes
she is gone.
If she is real
I will take her to the beach.
One time
the whole family took a trip;
we even stayed overnight.
the sand was so white
it was opaque
(I learned this word
from a book I have been reading
The Good Earth
by Pearl S. Buck),
and the sky
the sea
blue
like the blue could burst
through clouds,
beautiful blue
not sad blue.
I could not leave the water
Pay-pay called me merman.
This memory
sits still
and silent
inside,
until I am ready
to give it
to someone
special.
Do you think the author’s
real name is Pearl?
Could she
have made it up?
The life in China
was hard
hard like the water buckets
I carry on my back
which scrape my shoulders
ragged,
Pearl
is a fantasy
of being precious,
how can you be poor
and precious?
How can I read this now?
It has only been months
since you left
the season changed from wet to dry,
and now it is dry again
and hot
the heat is a menace
a maniac,
but so can the water be, sometimes.
I will tell you more about the water
in my next letter.
Yes,
I read another letter you wrote
about the weather
how the camps
have ferocious heat, too,
how the burka you wear
is saturated in sweat,
how Amana cries,
since I was her favorite brother.
Do not tell me this.
It opens up my sorrow
and makes it bigger.
I do not need
sorrow to slice
through my skin.
If I were an author
I would name myself
Abracadabra,
so I could make magic
with words
and my words would travel
in the wind
would make Amana’s tears
dry off
take flight.
This is what I know
Ha Jia told me
but I read it
in a ripped article
I found in the forest:
many of our people
are stranded
at sea,
Thailand
Indonesia
no one
wants us
the way you
did not want me
and left.
This is what I think
you can’t love
anyone afterwards—
can you?
The article
goes on to say
so many migrants died
in overcrowded
and unseaworthy boats,
so I suppose
I am lucky
my family is alive.
The weather
this past summer
it rained
as if that is all
it could do,
it rained unkindly
it rained till I lived with rain
and water;
I could fill my bucket
with tears from the sky
but I was never dry,
since I had so many tears inside me.
Perhaps I always will.
Once
the
re was a monsoon
July or August
I can’t keep track
of the months,
but the rain
was heartless,
not even good for the crops
Ha Jia said,
but he let
me stay inside,
which
I have done
a few times,
but this time
Lia made soup
and the greens floated to the top,
and filled my belly
with happiness.
Pagodas,
precious pagodas
praying pagodas,
but what about
when your prayers
go unanswered
praying mantis,
who attacked me,
so my welt
now rises
like a pagoda
off my bony arm.
Part II: The Girl in the Woods
And on the night
of the biggest monsoon,
the littlest boy, Amana’s age,
he cuddled with me
and I could pretend
it was the girl
I have seen
in the forest,
and I could make believe
I was keeping her safe
like Zatoup
felt
with my arms
wrapped around him.
Now it is hot, May-may
sometimes there is a breeze,
but mostly it is hot,
even so
I see her eyes peeking out
from behind the bushes,
this is what I know
this is
a good heat.
Hot
blazing hot
mean hot
sweat is another skin hot
hot for her
so hot for her
my body
makes more heat.
This is a letter
I will not send you, May-may.
Is it a year
since you left?
I can really
read and write
which makes me
a little less lonely,
but I may not
write you so often anymore
there is a girl
she has come
out of the woods
to stare at me,
she will not say a word,
but my eyes are stuck.
This girl
darts in and out of the leaves
like shade or shadow
she has long, dark hair
and night eyes
with stars in them
white specks;
they are large
and lonely
she wants to see me,
but she can’t look
into my eyes.
Shin aaingaliutlo pway lar? *
*Do you speak English?
Hi!
No Answer.
She slips out of the shadows
like a thief.
Shin-ne-meh-beh-lo-k’aw-leh?
What is your name?
I say it in English.
No answer,
but she hovers over me
as I fill the buckets
with water.
I offer her some,
but she will not even
open her mouth.
She doesn’t even smile.
May-may
I cannot write you anymore
for some time
I have met a girl.
This is what I know
I want her
to be my friend
or maybe something more.
Can’t you talk
can’t you
at least smile?
and suddenly
it emerges
a smile
thin as the moon
radiant
white, white, white
against
dark, dark skin
darker than mine
and dirty.
She allows me to wash her face off
with water from the stream.
Sain bhaalkalell? *
*Where are you from?
Where do you sleep at night?
Do you sleep?
Where do you live?
Do you live in the forest like I do?
Do we speak the same language?
Do you speak at all?
Do you understand me?
Can you answer me?
Kyasopataal. *
*Welcome
Come over
sit by my side
watch how I pour the water
into the pail,
the grass will tickle
the inside of your long, brown legs,
and I can rub them, too.
But you won’t let me
near you,
not near enough
to smell your sweet breath
and soothe your sorrow.
I will need
Kan-kaung-ba-zay *
with her.
*Good luck
Dear Pay-pay,
I know you are dead,
but there is no way
I am telling this
to my May-may.
There is this girl
who sneaks out of the woods
to watch me fill the pails
with water.
She comes to the streams
stands and stares,
but she will not even look at me,
and at night
when stars fill the sky
she sleeps on the same floor as I do—
the woods,
but so far, far away.
Pay-pay,
My body
is on fire,
what do I do with it.
The water
does not cool me off
and she still hasn’t said a word.
Come
sleep next to me
you can sleep
on the other end of the mat.
And she does.
Min-ga-la-ba. *
Why is she saying
hello to me
now?
* Hello
In the morning
we are strangers again.
Sometimes
when I am at Ha Jia’s house
I play a game
called tag with his children;
this is what
she does with me
darting in and out of the woods.
Or it is peek-a-boo
a game
you played with me
when I was a baby.
Do you remember, May-may?
Do you remember me?
I don’t even know
how old I am,
but however old it is
she, with the sneaky smile
is the same age.
When I read a letter of yours
like today
when you tell me about
how the boys are learning
to read,
I pretend
the letter
is you,
so I can rip it into tiny shreds
and throw it away.
Dear May-may,
At night she sleeps next to me
at the other end
of the mat.
I beckon her closer,
but she barely looks at me
and doesn’t touch me,
though when she sleeps
and the night has a breeze
her sleep is the wind
that wills me
to close my eyes.
You can talk to me
I won’t bite you.
Where are you from?
Sain bhaalkalell? *
Why are you here?
Why do you follow me
and when I try to talk to you
run like a rat
who has been trapped
for supper?
You know English
since you understand
what I am saying.
*Where are you from?
And this is why I said rat
I hate women
I am telling you
I hate girls
all girls,
except maybe my sister;
I might hate her, too
I do not know
it’s been almost a year and a half
since I have seen her.
Women have left me
their voices are not true
like the earth,
yet when I say this
suddenly, there is a voice.
I am not all women
you tell me;
I am a girl
though I have been treated like a woman
that is why I am here.
Tell me
I reach out my hand,
You can tell me anything.
What is your name?
And then she moves closer
My name is Zahura
I will talk to you
as long as you stop cursing about girls
beneath your breath.
Did I do that?
Really?
Now I will stop
and listen.
She tells me
how she has run away
from her village
Why No Goodbye? Page 2
